I started this blog quite awhile ago, but did nothing with it, then I got serious about keeping up with my writing and posting regularly. Well, sort of regularly.
Lately, I've felt the blog might be going in too many directions, but then I realized that's because I go in different direction. Problem is, sometimes that might make it hard to follow, and so I decided to add a little focus. Remember, I said a "little". What I did for a start was I rewrote the little paragraph under my picture that's titled, "About Me", and now I feel better about the shape the blog is taking. The About Me paragraph is a much better description of where I am presently, and I hope give you a better understanding of why I write what I write. If it doesn't, that's okay because it's giving me a better understanding.
On a different note; in the event you think this is all about me, let me just point out it doesn't have to be. You are welcome to add to the blog. As a matter-of-fact, I encourage any feedback as well as an opportunity to hear your stories too. At the end of each of my posts, there is a comment link. You can click on that, and share your thought. FYI; your comment doesn't show up automatically but rather comes to me in an email, so that I can review it for inappropriate content. When I get the email, I approve it and then your comment gets posted.
One more point I'd like to make is that I'd love to grow my list of followers. More followers, means more feedback, more shared experiences, resulting in more inspiration for all of us and more motivation for me to keep going. So help me out here, when you read something you like, think of who else might like it and share it with them. There's a link for that, too.
Thanks again for following. If my blog makes you smile, my mission is accomplished.
Friday, August 13, 2010
Wednesday, August 11, 2010
A Rare Anniversary Gift
I’m the one who chose where we would lodge on our 29th anniversary. if it had been up to my husband, Doug we would have stayed somewhere with a little less lace. Not that he doesn’t appreciate old world charm; he was captivated when the proprietor, Jennifer, while giving us a tour of the property, explained that the six-inch-wide, immaculate-condition woodwork was the original, never have being refinished, or so she said.
We arrived in Sparta at 1:30 in the afternoon and went straight to the old depot, now housing the Sparta Chamber of Commerce, where we bought annual Wisconsin trail passes. From there we hit the Elroy-Sparta trail with our bikes. The 32 mile rail-trail was the reason we’d chosen the area for our weekend getaway.
We didn’t go far that afternoon, we’d only planned to put in an hour of riding and we stopped a couple of times along the way to snap photos with our phones.
Frankly I could have passed on the inn tour; we’d spent nearly four hours in the car before our hour bike ride in ninety degree weather, a temperature we’re no longer acclimated to having spent the last twenty years in Wisconsin. All I wanted to do was get to our room and climb in the shower described on the inn’s website as being equipped with a multilevel shower massage. Personally I would have preferred a room with a whirlpool or even just a claw-foot tub, but there was none available at the time of my booking. The so-called shower massage was a vertical bar with six nozzles that spayed streams comparable to an old man pissing in the wind.
It didn’t seem to matter to our host what I wanted. We were instructed to sit our bags down in the tiny vestibule and follow her. Thankfully, the tour ended up being of only three of the home’s twelve or so rooms; a parlor where we could watch television, had that been how we chose to spend our weekend away, and the dining room, where we could look forward to having breakfast at a table with six complete strangers, probably all weirdos, I thought and finally, our private quarters, “The Master Bedroom”.
I love old houses, but I’m not an antique aficionado. I prefer furnishings and decor of a more eclectic style, or at the very least modern classic, and in general I’m a minimalist. This 1900s Queen Anne style home turned B & B, boasted Victorian decor. In fact, the name of the establishment employed the description “Victorian”. Now my understanding of the Victorian era is that it was marked by a stifling level of prudishness. While Queen Anne of that era might be associated with lace, to cover every square inch of flat surface with lace doilies I think is decor slaughter.
The “Master Bedroom, ironically the one without a whirlpool, was furnished with a comfortably-firm, king-sized bed, a settee and a small table with two chairs. There was a groaning window air-conditioner in one of the three lace-dressed windows and a fireplace complete with electric insert...how charming. There were no drawers to store our clothes or necessities. The room was cluttered with plastic display holders bearing advertisements for various items in our room and around the inn that could be bought in the event I wanted to take any reminders of the inn home with me. I did not. For that matter, I decided right there and then I probably would spend as little time as possible at the inn.
A sideboard right outside our room, contained refreshments including cookies for all inn guests which our tour guide said we could have anytime we wanted. Apparently prior guests hadn’t much wanted them. The two I had were a long way from fresh out of the oven. I’d venture to guess they were of the day old variety purchased perhaps at an outlet store in LaCrosse the week before.
After breaking away from our host we fled to the “Master Bedroom” to put away our things. Remembering there were no drawers or closets I realized what a silly thought that was and we retreated back out into the warm breezy afternoon. The wicker furniture on the wide columned porch was inviting until I sat on the hard lumpy cushions. Those were enough to make me long for the comfort of my gel bicycle seat, which believe me can be torture in spite of the gel. We decided we may as well go to dinner early.
The innkeeper had recommended Angelini’s on Main Street. It was a tad more casual then we ordinarily would choose for our anniversary dinner but we liked the idea that it was in walking distance. We feasted there on authentic Chicago Italian food and too stuffed to walk back to the inn we hoisted ourselves onto two empty stools at the bar, and ordered a couple more glasses of Chianti. It wasn’t a familiar label but it had paired well enough with the lasagna.
The Chicago Bear Photos lining the wall in the bar caught our eye, as did the notice to customers which read, “At Angelini’s the Customer is Not always right.” This seemed to be somewhat gutsy for a conservative small town in Wisconsin so we just had to question the bar tender, Kevin, who come to find out was one of the restaurant’s owners. He explained that he and his partner, Tony, who then joined us at the bar were just a couple of Chicago boys and had graduated from the same high school in Franklin Park, IL. as Doug, only thirty years later.
It was still early when we finished our wine and since we were too full to eat or drink another thing we had no choice but retire early to the inn. We tried the porch again, but the cushions hadn’t gotten any softer. There was nothing left to do but return to our cave of a room and read by the dim light of the bedside lamps. I would have given anything to turn on a television and fall asleep to the banter of Jerry, Elaine, George and Kramer, but thought better of going downstairs to sleep on the parlor divan. Instead I drifted off to the sound of the window air-conditioner that seemed to start and stop like clockwork every twenty minutes throughout the night.
The next morning we had a typical B & B breakfast, consisting of several breakfast ingredients baked together in a casserole dish. It was tasty enough and provided adequate fuel for the day of cycling that lay ahead.
The breakfast conversation with the four strangers we shared the table with was unexpectedly delightful. The discussion revolved around bike gears, helmets and running shoes. It was very refreshing to be far enough away from Packer Country to not have to hear a steady stream of football talk, Brett Farve was mentioned only once.
The day was warming up fast so we wasted no time letting breakfast settle before mounting our bikes. It was a short ten minute ride from the inn to the train depot that marked the trailhead to the Elroy-Sparta. On our way through Sparta we passed Ben Bikin; a thirty-two foot tall sculpture of a gay-nineties gentlemen astride a Victorian-era high-wheel cycle which is the town’s testament to being the bicycling capital of America.
Our goal was to put in thirty cycling miles, a distance that once seemed like a walk, or should I say a ride, in the park, but that was a few years ago. The longest distance we’d ridden in the past year was a meager twelve. My motivation to again ride a long distance came mainly from my desire to experience the tunnels along the trail I’d so far only read about. The other B&B guests warned us that it would be tricky to traverse the tunnels without carrying a light. I hadn’t thought to bring our expensive german-made halogen bike lights so we purchased flashlights, made in China, for sale at the inn, for a buck a piece.
We took our time time as we rode out from the depot, enjoying the views of the rolling green hills of southwest Wisconsin, and the piney aroma of the woods. After about forty-five minutes we approached the first tunnel on our route; tunnel three on the map. Tunnel three, the longest of the three tunnels is three-quarters of a mile long. The massive wooden doors originally installed by the railroad to keep out snow and rock remain open from May to November.
The first thing I noticed was the rush of cool air, as though someone had opened a freezer door. The second thing I noticed was the Amish caravan walking their bikes down the hill from a trailside park. It looked like several families totaling thirty or more people. Instantly surrounded by this group whose attire covered ninety percent of their body I became a little self conscious of my spandex bike shorts and sports bra that plainly showed through my sheer tank top. At least I was comfortable I thought, but then again the Amish folks didn’t seem to notice the torrid heat.
I hadn’t realized we would be walking not riding our bikes through the tunnel until I peered inside and saw nothing but a wall of blackness. We dismounted our bikes and began following the first infantry of Amish as they entered the tunnel, the beams of our flashlights poised on the ground ahead. The remaining Amish appeared to be hanging back to regroup with family members, but soon entered behind us. We must have been about halfway through the tunnel when I felt a light mist of cool water on my bare arms. A few feet further and rain drops were pelting against my fiberglass helmet. Doug explained the water was coming from underground springs- apparently he’d been doing a little reading about the trail the night before.
Suddenly I heard soft music that seemed to be coming from the walls of the tunnel, it then rose to a crescendo and I realized it was coming from the Amish, they had at once broken out in song in front and behind us. The monophonic melody that surrounded us in the acoustics of the tunnel was like nothing I’d ever heard and yet it had a strangely familiar, almost primal quality to it. To be there at that moment, standing in the center of a natural stereo, was a rare and unexpected gift. Just as the song reached it’s end, we saw light at the end of the tunnel.
As we climbed back on our bikes in the sweltering heat that awaited on the other side of the tunnel, I was impressed by the site of the Amish women mounting their bicycles in their long skirts. How did they keep that billowing fabric out of the spokes I wondered, but they didn’t seem to give it a second thought. Self conscious still, but thankful for my spandex shorts with their padded crotch, we continued our ride.
Rolling into Wilton, we were in desperate need of refueling, and wishing we had sought out recommendations for lunch we settled on a bar on Main Street, where we devoured tasteless tuna salad sandwiches and diet cokes. Somewhat refreshed, Doug and I decided to head back in the direction of Sparta. As much as I would’ve like to bike the full trail, or at least get to tunnel two, I knew my stamina would give out and we wouldn’t make it back before dark.
On our way back to town we were alerted by cell phone that our grandson would be having surgery in Green Bay the next morning, so we decided we would check out of the B & B early and drive back to Green Bay. Concern over our grandson, who thankfully is fine now, outweighed any disappointment we might have felt over cutting our weekend short. In all honesty, there was no disappointment at all in knowing we would not be spending a second night in the “Master Bedroom”.
We haven’t decided how we’ll spend our thirtieth anniversary, but I’m pretty sure the venue will not be a Bed and Breakfast. I hope to get back to the Elroy-Sparta trail before then to experience the other two tunnels and I’m thinking when we do, the itinerary will begin with a campsite.
We arrived in Sparta at 1:30 in the afternoon and went straight to the old depot, now housing the Sparta Chamber of Commerce, where we bought annual Wisconsin trail passes. From there we hit the Elroy-Sparta trail with our bikes. The 32 mile rail-trail was the reason we’d chosen the area for our weekend getaway.
We didn’t go far that afternoon, we’d only planned to put in an hour of riding and we stopped a couple of times along the way to snap photos with our phones.
Frankly I could have passed on the inn tour; we’d spent nearly four hours in the car before our hour bike ride in ninety degree weather, a temperature we’re no longer acclimated to having spent the last twenty years in Wisconsin. All I wanted to do was get to our room and climb in the shower described on the inn’s website as being equipped with a multilevel shower massage. Personally I would have preferred a room with a whirlpool or even just a claw-foot tub, but there was none available at the time of my booking. The so-called shower massage was a vertical bar with six nozzles that spayed streams comparable to an old man pissing in the wind.
It didn’t seem to matter to our host what I wanted. We were instructed to sit our bags down in the tiny vestibule and follow her. Thankfully, the tour ended up being of only three of the home’s twelve or so rooms; a parlor where we could watch television, had that been how we chose to spend our weekend away, and the dining room, where we could look forward to having breakfast at a table with six complete strangers, probably all weirdos, I thought and finally, our private quarters, “The Master Bedroom”.
I love old houses, but I’m not an antique aficionado. I prefer furnishings and decor of a more eclectic style, or at the very least modern classic, and in general I’m a minimalist. This 1900s Queen Anne style home turned B & B, boasted Victorian decor. In fact, the name of the establishment employed the description “Victorian”. Now my understanding of the Victorian era is that it was marked by a stifling level of prudishness. While Queen Anne of that era might be associated with lace, to cover every square inch of flat surface with lace doilies I think is decor slaughter.
The “Master Bedroom, ironically the one without a whirlpool, was furnished with a comfortably-firm, king-sized bed, a settee and a small table with two chairs. There was a groaning window air-conditioner in one of the three lace-dressed windows and a fireplace complete with electric insert...how charming. There were no drawers to store our clothes or necessities. The room was cluttered with plastic display holders bearing advertisements for various items in our room and around the inn that could be bought in the event I wanted to take any reminders of the inn home with me. I did not. For that matter, I decided right there and then I probably would spend as little time as possible at the inn.
A sideboard right outside our room, contained refreshments including cookies for all inn guests which our tour guide said we could have anytime we wanted. Apparently prior guests hadn’t much wanted them. The two I had were a long way from fresh out of the oven. I’d venture to guess they were of the day old variety purchased perhaps at an outlet store in LaCrosse the week before.
After breaking away from our host we fled to the “Master Bedroom” to put away our things. Remembering there were no drawers or closets I realized what a silly thought that was and we retreated back out into the warm breezy afternoon. The wicker furniture on the wide columned porch was inviting until I sat on the hard lumpy cushions. Those were enough to make me long for the comfort of my gel bicycle seat, which believe me can be torture in spite of the gel. We decided we may as well go to dinner early.
The innkeeper had recommended Angelini’s on Main Street. It was a tad more casual then we ordinarily would choose for our anniversary dinner but we liked the idea that it was in walking distance. We feasted there on authentic Chicago Italian food and too stuffed to walk back to the inn we hoisted ourselves onto two empty stools at the bar, and ordered a couple more glasses of Chianti. It wasn’t a familiar label but it had paired well enough with the lasagna.
The Chicago Bear Photos lining the wall in the bar caught our eye, as did the notice to customers which read, “At Angelini’s the Customer is Not always right.” This seemed to be somewhat gutsy for a conservative small town in Wisconsin so we just had to question the bar tender, Kevin, who come to find out was one of the restaurant’s owners. He explained that he and his partner, Tony, who then joined us at the bar were just a couple of Chicago boys and had graduated from the same high school in Franklin Park, IL. as Doug, only thirty years later.
It was still early when we finished our wine and since we were too full to eat or drink another thing we had no choice but retire early to the inn. We tried the porch again, but the cushions hadn’t gotten any softer. There was nothing left to do but return to our cave of a room and read by the dim light of the bedside lamps. I would have given anything to turn on a television and fall asleep to the banter of Jerry, Elaine, George and Kramer, but thought better of going downstairs to sleep on the parlor divan. Instead I drifted off to the sound of the window air-conditioner that seemed to start and stop like clockwork every twenty minutes throughout the night.
The next morning we had a typical B & B breakfast, consisting of several breakfast ingredients baked together in a casserole dish. It was tasty enough and provided adequate fuel for the day of cycling that lay ahead.
The breakfast conversation with the four strangers we shared the table with was unexpectedly delightful. The discussion revolved around bike gears, helmets and running shoes. It was very refreshing to be far enough away from Packer Country to not have to hear a steady stream of football talk, Brett Farve was mentioned only once.
The day was warming up fast so we wasted no time letting breakfast settle before mounting our bikes. It was a short ten minute ride from the inn to the train depot that marked the trailhead to the Elroy-Sparta. On our way through Sparta we passed Ben Bikin; a thirty-two foot tall sculpture of a gay-nineties gentlemen astride a Victorian-era high-wheel cycle which is the town’s testament to being the bicycling capital of America.
Our goal was to put in thirty cycling miles, a distance that once seemed like a walk, or should I say a ride, in the park, but that was a few years ago. The longest distance we’d ridden in the past year was a meager twelve. My motivation to again ride a long distance came mainly from my desire to experience the tunnels along the trail I’d so far only read about. The other B&B guests warned us that it would be tricky to traverse the tunnels without carrying a light. I hadn’t thought to bring our expensive german-made halogen bike lights so we purchased flashlights, made in China, for sale at the inn, for a buck a piece.
We took our time time as we rode out from the depot, enjoying the views of the rolling green hills of southwest Wisconsin, and the piney aroma of the woods. After about forty-five minutes we approached the first tunnel on our route; tunnel three on the map. Tunnel three, the longest of the three tunnels is three-quarters of a mile long. The massive wooden doors originally installed by the railroad to keep out snow and rock remain open from May to November.
The first thing I noticed was the rush of cool air, as though someone had opened a freezer door. The second thing I noticed was the Amish caravan walking their bikes down the hill from a trailside park. It looked like several families totaling thirty or more people. Instantly surrounded by this group whose attire covered ninety percent of their body I became a little self conscious of my spandex bike shorts and sports bra that plainly showed through my sheer tank top. At least I was comfortable I thought, but then again the Amish folks didn’t seem to notice the torrid heat.
I hadn’t realized we would be walking not riding our bikes through the tunnel until I peered inside and saw nothing but a wall of blackness. We dismounted our bikes and began following the first infantry of Amish as they entered the tunnel, the beams of our flashlights poised on the ground ahead. The remaining Amish appeared to be hanging back to regroup with family members, but soon entered behind us. We must have been about halfway through the tunnel when I felt a light mist of cool water on my bare arms. A few feet further and rain drops were pelting against my fiberglass helmet. Doug explained the water was coming from underground springs- apparently he’d been doing a little reading about the trail the night before.
Suddenly I heard soft music that seemed to be coming from the walls of the tunnel, it then rose to a crescendo and I realized it was coming from the Amish, they had at once broken out in song in front and behind us. The monophonic melody that surrounded us in the acoustics of the tunnel was like nothing I’d ever heard and yet it had a strangely familiar, almost primal quality to it. To be there at that moment, standing in the center of a natural stereo, was a rare and unexpected gift. Just as the song reached it’s end, we saw light at the end of the tunnel.
As we climbed back on our bikes in the sweltering heat that awaited on the other side of the tunnel, I was impressed by the site of the Amish women mounting their bicycles in their long skirts. How did they keep that billowing fabric out of the spokes I wondered, but they didn’t seem to give it a second thought. Self conscious still, but thankful for my spandex shorts with their padded crotch, we continued our ride.
Rolling into Wilton, we were in desperate need of refueling, and wishing we had sought out recommendations for lunch we settled on a bar on Main Street, where we devoured tasteless tuna salad sandwiches and diet cokes. Somewhat refreshed, Doug and I decided to head back in the direction of Sparta. As much as I would’ve like to bike the full trail, or at least get to tunnel two, I knew my stamina would give out and we wouldn’t make it back before dark.
On our way back to town we were alerted by cell phone that our grandson would be having surgery in Green Bay the next morning, so we decided we would check out of the B & B early and drive back to Green Bay. Concern over our grandson, who thankfully is fine now, outweighed any disappointment we might have felt over cutting our weekend short. In all honesty, there was no disappointment at all in knowing we would not be spending a second night in the “Master Bedroom”.
We haven’t decided how we’ll spend our thirtieth anniversary, but I’m pretty sure the venue will not be a Bed and Breakfast. I hope to get back to the Elroy-Sparta trail before then to experience the other two tunnels and I’m thinking when we do, the itinerary will begin with a campsite.
Tuesday, August 3, 2010
Mother's Instinct
For those of us who’ve raised a child, we know and understand the importance of a mother’s instinct, and yet doctors still don’t get it. Pediatricians continue to snicker at the idea that teething sometimes causes fevers and diaper rash while there’s not a mother on the planet that hasn’t experienced it first hand. Rather than argue with the medical profession until we’re blue in the face, we just smile and nod then take our babies home to soothe their sore gums.
There are times however when we must stay and fight, and to know when the time to do so is necessary we have to trust our instincts. Thankfully, my daughter trusted hers when my grandson, Jax got sick.
Twice the pediatrician sent Carrie home with Jax telling her he had the flu, but Carrie knew it was more than that and she persisted taking him next to the emergency room. There, he was treated for dehydration which another doctor advised her was the result of the flu. Carrie knew there was more to it, for one thing, it wasn’t flu season and for another the symptoms the doctors told her would follow never came. The emergency room doctor wanted to send them home, but Carrie put her foot down. Something was seriously wrong with Jax and she wouldn’t give up until they got to the bottom of it.
The doctor condescended only because it was a holiday weekend, and admitted Jax to NICU where again, he was treated for the flu.
Carrie knew little Jax’s tummy was too hard and she felt a lump there that the doctors hadn’t. She insisted on an X-ray. The X-ray proved intussusception, a telescoping of the intestine that causes a blockage. Jax was given a barium enema that corrects the condition in 50% of cases but not in his. He was operated on and according to the surgeon, it was successful. For the first twenty-four hours, Jax seemed to improve a little, but Carrie was skeptical and vigilant in her watch.
The second day, Jax’s condition seem to be going down hill although not a lot, at least not so much that the doctor’s noticed, and yet Carrie did. For three more days the doctors ignored the symptoms of a recurrence, in spite of statistics that show when there is one it’s usually within the first seventy-two hours after surgery.
Carrie was talking to the doctors about moving Jax to Milwaukee’s Children’s hospital, but they said it wasn’t necessary. They came to Jax’s room a little more often but it seemed to be more of an attempt to grease a squeaky wheel rather than listen to what mother’s intuition was telling Carrie. “Wait and see,” they said, “give it a few more days.” Carrie put her foot down, and the order to move him was signed.
After a two hour ambulance ride from Green Bay to Milwaukee, Jax was whisked to radiology at Children’s Hospital where a second blockage was discovered. He was then rushed to surgery for a life-saving operation.
In respect to the level of care Jax was given, it was like leaving the Bates Hotel and checking into the Ritz. We knew he was where he should have been all along. Had it not been for his mom’s instinct and her persistence at following it, Jax’s bowel might have been replaced with an external bag, or worse, he might not have survived.
The sad thing is, it appeared to be nothing more than greed and pride that caused the doctor’s at the first hospital to discount Carrie’s intuition. After all, they are respected and experienced physicians.
There are times however when we must stay and fight, and to know when the time to do so is necessary we have to trust our instincts. Thankfully, my daughter trusted hers when my grandson, Jax got sick.
Twice the pediatrician sent Carrie home with Jax telling her he had the flu, but Carrie knew it was more than that and she persisted taking him next to the emergency room. There, he was treated for dehydration which another doctor advised her was the result of the flu. Carrie knew there was more to it, for one thing, it wasn’t flu season and for another the symptoms the doctors told her would follow never came. The emergency room doctor wanted to send them home, but Carrie put her foot down. Something was seriously wrong with Jax and she wouldn’t give up until they got to the bottom of it.
The doctor condescended only because it was a holiday weekend, and admitted Jax to NICU where again, he was treated for the flu.
Carrie knew little Jax’s tummy was too hard and she felt a lump there that the doctors hadn’t. She insisted on an X-ray. The X-ray proved intussusception, a telescoping of the intestine that causes a blockage. Jax was given a barium enema that corrects the condition in 50% of cases but not in his. He was operated on and according to the surgeon, it was successful. For the first twenty-four hours, Jax seemed to improve a little, but Carrie was skeptical and vigilant in her watch.
The second day, Jax’s condition seem to be going down hill although not a lot, at least not so much that the doctor’s noticed, and yet Carrie did. For three more days the doctors ignored the symptoms of a recurrence, in spite of statistics that show when there is one it’s usually within the first seventy-two hours after surgery.
Carrie was talking to the doctors about moving Jax to Milwaukee’s Children’s hospital, but they said it wasn’t necessary. They came to Jax’s room a little more often but it seemed to be more of an attempt to grease a squeaky wheel rather than listen to what mother’s intuition was telling Carrie. “Wait and see,” they said, “give it a few more days.” Carrie put her foot down, and the order to move him was signed.
After a two hour ambulance ride from Green Bay to Milwaukee, Jax was whisked to radiology at Children’s Hospital where a second blockage was discovered. He was then rushed to surgery for a life-saving operation.
In respect to the level of care Jax was given, it was like leaving the Bates Hotel and checking into the Ritz. We knew he was where he should have been all along. Had it not been for his mom’s instinct and her persistence at following it, Jax’s bowel might have been replaced with an external bag, or worse, he might not have survived.
The sad thing is, it appeared to be nothing more than greed and pride that caused the doctor’s at the first hospital to discount Carrie’s intuition. After all, they are respected and experienced physicians.
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